Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

After a week of steady travel, the twin Immortal Boats finally reached the edge of the continent. Land slowly disappeared behind them, swallowed by the misty horizon, and before long, all that remained was sky above and endless ocean below.

It was a rare sight—no birds, no islands, only silence and shimmer.

And then, without warning, a radiant pulse spread across the Immortal Boat's hull.

The protective formation fully activated—engulfing the vessel in a shell of spiritual light that shimmered like liquid crystal. An intricate array lit up along its base, humming with defensive energy.

Devor's brow furrowed.

"That's not standard procedure..." He thought.

He turned to Yulin, who had just finished checking the stabilizers of her flying sword.

"Do you think there's a high chance we'll be attacked out here?"

He wasn't panicking—yet—but the activation looked like more than a precaution.

Yulin arched a brow, amused by the worry in his voice.

"Of course not," she said lightly. "Fighting on open sea is suicide—unless you've reached Void Realm or higher. Even then, it's reckless."

She paused, then glanced over the railing, her expression sobering.

"The sea isn't dangerous because of people. It's dangerous because of what lives in it. Spirit Beasts on land can be reasoned with—or run from. But in the water?"

"You're in their domain."

Devor nodded, thoughtful.

It made sense.

The moment they'd entered the deep zone, the Immortal Boat had picked up speed, like it was trying to glide across an invisible line before something noticed them.

Five hours passed.

The sun had begun its slow descent across the sky, dyeing the clouds in shades of fire and rose. The sea, too, shimmered with hues of gold—but the feeling it gave was anything but warm.

Yulin approached quietly and nudged Devor. "Come. There's something you need to see."

She led him toward the edge of the boat, guiding him to the viewing deck where most passengers avoided standing for too long.

Devor followed, curiosity piqued. When she motioned downward, he leaned over the railing—and froze.

"What the..."

Below them, in the watery abyss, something stirred.

No—many somethings.

Huge, writhing shadows slithered beneath the surface, far too massive to be ordinary sea beasts. And trailing them were dozens—no, hundreds—of smaller predators.

For a split second, Devor's spiritual perception made contact.

A cold, primal hunger washed over him. It wasn't malice. It was just raw instinct—the kind of hunger that didn't think, didn't hesitate.

Something in those depths simply wanted to consume.

Every few minutes, one of the creatures leapt out of the ocean, launching itself like a torpedo straight at the Immortal Boat.

But each time, the shield flared and struck them back effortlessly. The boat didn't even tremble.

Still, seeing them up close was enough to make Devor's skin crawl. "If the formation weren't this strong…"

Yulin stood beside him, hands behind her back.

"In the future, if you ever cross the sea without proper escort—be very careful," she said quietly. "This stretch of water is known as the Sunken Expanse. Once you enter it, you're either protected... or you're prey."

Devor inhaled sharply. Prey was not a word he wanted to associate with himself. "But what about the smaller sects? Or ordinary people who want to travel between continents? Not everyone has Immortal Boats like ours."

Yulin gave a faint, amused smile. "Most don't. But there's a power that dominates maritime transportation. A merchant-turned-cultivation guild known as the Ocean Pavilion. They run escorted voyages across dangerous sea routes. Smaller sects, rogue cultivators, even kingdoms—almost everyone uses them."

"Sounds profitable," Devor muttered, watching another monster slam into the formation and fall back, stunned. "Incredibly. But the Pavilion's fees are steep. Even the Azure Sky Sect would think twice before hiring them regularly."

She looked back over the water, her voice turning cold. "Of course, anyone can try to cross the sea alone. But if they do, they'd better be prepared to die in the dark."

Devor let out a soft sigh as he leaned against the rail, the salty wind brushing against his face. The ocean, once a poetic mystery in his mind, now lay before him as an unfathomable realm of cold silence and ancient power.

This journey had opened his eyes—not just to the grandeur of the wider world, but to its dangers. Its secrets.

"Gardening really is the easiest and most peaceful thing," he thought wryly, already missing the quiet rhythm of planting and cultivation, the comforting presence of his spiritual plants swaying in harmony.

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The sea was alive, yes—but not in the way a garden was. There was no serenity here, only depth. Endless depth. And the pressure that came with it.

Now that he'd read more about the ocean's history—particularly the rise and fall of the Abyssal Race, the sovereigns of the deep sea—Devor couldn't help but feel a new kind of awe.

The ocean wasn't just water.

It was a world unto itself. A vast, forgotten domain filled with beasts older than any sect, ancient races whose bloodlines had been long severed from the surface.

And worse? It was alive in a way he didn't understand.

It reminded him of Earth, the world he'd come from. Despite all of mankind's technological advances—their satellites, telescopes, probes—they'd barely scratched the surface of the ocean. Even there, in a place ruled by logic and science, the deep sea remained mostly uncharted.

The stars had names.

But the abyss… was still nameless.

"And now I'm in a world where sea creatures can shatter islands and swallow cities," he muttered, glancing out over the restless waves. "What the hell lives at the bottom of this ocean?"

Shaking those thoughts loose, Devor turned and made his way back toward his assigned quarters.

As a Divine Disciple, he naturally had a private room aboard the Immortal Boat—spartan, but peaceful. Yulin had one as well, despite still being listed as an Inner Disciple.

How she'd arranged that, Devor didn't ask. He knew better.

Inside his quarters, the walls were lined with sound-sealing formations and gentle light runes that flickered like bioluminescent flowers.

It wasn't a garden—but it would do.

From his Spatial Ring, he withdrew a stack of hand-bound tomes. These weren't ancient manuals from some lost sect or inheritance vault. They were his books—filled with notes, sketches, spontaneous theories, and chaotic annotations from years of solitary study.

One of them bore a title etched in violet ink:

The Poison Codex

Opening it, he immediately lost himself in the intricate nature of spiritual plant lore—studying how some flowed like gentle streams, while others asserted themselves like towering peaks.

He discovered that certain traits simply couldn't coexist. A plant with a yielding, fluid nature might wither beside one with an aggressive, domineering essence.

But instead of discouraging him, this only deepened his fascination.

The balance he nurtured in his garden didn't arise from stillness—it was shaped by conflict. By the interplay of opposing forces, by the tension between submission and strength, and the quiet negotiation of power written into each leaf and root.

"They destroy each other," he noted, eyes scanning a torn page. "But maybe that's the point."

Devor had long since realized something most cultivators never did:

Harmony was not the absence of conflict. It was the resolution of it.

The balance he sought in his gardens didn't arise from similarity or agreement. It came from mastering clashing natures—from teaching opposites to not just coexist, but to strengthen one another.

"The greater the chaos… the greater the reward."

That was his truth.

He spent days pouring over his notes, sketching theoretical layouts, and modifying cultivation arrays that could temporarily suppress one trait while another flourished.

His goal was ambitious.

Not just to tame poisonous plants—but to craft a harmony model of the highest grade. One that could weave even the most unruly traits into something stable, even beautiful. A living composition that only he could conduct.

His gaze shifted to a closed book resting quietly in the corner of the table.

The Ultimate Poison Codex.

To scholars, it was a heretical volume—filled with pairings of plants whose natures should never intertwine. Elements that clashed not through force, but through essence. Gentle growth overwhelmed by stubborn will. Serene roots suffocated by restless energy.

But Devor wasn't seeking peace. Not yet.

"If I can bring even one of these relationships into balance... I could reshape the entire field of spiritual botany."

A steady pulse of ambition rose within him.

Still, he closed the Codex without reading further.

"I don't need to master it yet," he whispered. "Right now, I just need to feel the rhythm."

As he leaned back in his chair, his mind finally slowing, he whispered to himself:

"Maybe I should ask Master Leifu about this."

It was a rare thought—he was usually reluctant to seek outside input, especially when his methods didn't align with traditional cultivation doctrine.

Most masters were bound by dogma. Devor feared their views would overwrite the delicate lattice of ideas he'd built on his own.

Things were different now.

He had stepped into the realm of the Idealist—not simply following inherited techniques, but crafting his own doctrine. A path shaped not by tradition or dogma, but by truth born from experience and failures stacked like stones beneath his feet.

"All great cultivators are idealists," he thought. "Stubborn ones. Once they find their path, nothing can shake them from it—not even the heavens."

He stood, a quiet determination in his gaze.

It was time to take that next step: to present his research and evolving philosophy to someone who might challenge it. Someone who wouldn't coddle him with polite encouragement, but test the steel of his ideas with real fire.

Leifu.

The Spiritual Hall Master, and one of the few elders Devor deeply respected—not for his power, but for his integrity and vision.

Only Yulin and Venom knew Devor was studying the Poison Codex, a tome considered volatile and heretical even among experienced cultivators. Still, he had no illusions—he was sure the Sect Master and others had quietly kept tabs on his progress. They always knew more than they let on.

But knowing was one thing. Challenging that knowledge was another.

"Right or wrong… I won't know until I face someone who's seen more of the world than I have."

Leaving his quarters, Devor made his way to the upper deck of the Immortal Boat. As expected, the sky was wide and deep, the sea below endless and glittering with danger.

And there—near the center of the deck—sat Leifu and Master Nie, seated at a simple wooden table. A set of four carved chairs surrounded a tray of fruit and tea. They spoke casually, but the atmosphere carried the weight of people who understood far more than they shared.

Devor stepped forward and bowed deeply, arms crossed in the traditional salute.

"Disciple greets Master Leifu and Master Nie."

Leifu gave a slow nod, his brow arching ever so slightly in surprise. "Devor. A rare sight to see you of your own accord."

Master Nie, meanwhile, squinted at him, already suspicious."You're not here to pester me about refining your Cultivation Technique again, are you?"

Devor blinked, caught slightly off-guard. Did Master Nie just sound… wary?

"No, Master Nie," he said calmly. "The technique you helped me refine is more than enough to carry me to the Nascent Soul stage. I wouldn't dream of bothering you about it again."

Master Nie exhaled dramatically, feigning exhaustion. "Thank the heavens. I can still remember the last revision cycle. It was like debugging a spiritual array designed by a lunatic who thought entropy was beautiful."

Devor winced. "I... take that as a compliment?"

Master Nie snorted but didn't argue.

Truth be told, Master Nie had learned a great deal from Devor's custom cultivation structure—but the insights were so personalized, they couldn't be replicated or shared. It was the ultimate unsellable enlightenment: brilliant, but nontransferable.

"A genius whose breakthroughs only benefit himself. The most annoying kind," Master Nie had once muttered after a session.

"So," Master Nie said now, sipping his tea, "you're here for Leifu, then?"

"I am," Devor answered with a bow, then turned respectfully to Leifu. "Master Leifu. I'd like to ask your thoughts on the Poison Codex I've been researching—particularly its implications for harmony theory and spiritual plant balance."

Leifu raised an eyebrow.

For a moment, he said nothing—then set down his cup and offered a thin, unreadable smile.

"I see. If you're bringing that to me, then you're ready to be challenged."

Devor gave a firm nod. "I wouldn't be asking if I wanted affirmation. I want truth."

A long silence stretched between them. Then Leifu gestured to the empty chair across from him.

"Good. But understand, I won't hold back."

"I wouldn't want you to," Devor replied.